7: Homecoming
by Math Girl
Summary: The boys come home again, for a little R & R. Neither movie nor TV verse, precisely some of both and a little different.
1. Chapter 1: Home

_An edited reunion._

**HOMECOMING**

1

Tracy Island was in sight, at last; a lush green jewel in the vast Pacific, dominated by an ancient volcano whose dark crags kept watch over a mighty secret. Not that the pilot of Thunderbird 1 was much concerned about secrets, just then. Blue eyes tensely narrowed, Scott Tracy circled the island in a low holding pattern, watching Thunderbird 2's slow, labored approach. His mind was racing, considering options for every possible scenario.

If there was another attack... If the rising wind nudged the big cargo lifter out of line with the runway... If Virgil somehow overshot, or came in too low... Anxiously, Scott hit the comm,

"Virge, watch your attitude," he said sharply, "You're a little steep. Might want to get her nose up and add some power."

His younger brother replied drily, a touch exasperated,

"Thanks, Scott. Really. I'll keep that in mind."

In the cockpit of Thunderbird 2, Virgil Tracy lined up with the cliff side runway, giving his young co-pilot occasional, muttered instructions. They had so very little steering rocket left, versus a gusty, screaming wind that was the last vestige of Tropical Storm Miguel. Had to get this right the first time, Virgil knew; they wouldn't be able to adjust course for a second pass, and the short runway dead-ended in a hangar carved from the living rock. There was absolutely no margin for error. Setting his jaw, Virgil concentrated fiercely on keeping his guidance lights green, following the beacon straight down the line. Gordon had another worry altogether, having their last, unscheduled thump-down still rather on his mind.

"Virgil...?" The auburn-haired boy ventured.

"Yeah," Virgil grunted,brown eyes riveted to his instruments. Flaps down... nose up... wheels down and locked... request permission to land...

"What 're we to do... if we fall short, I mean?"

The pilot snorted. "Plan 13: Roll down the window, stick your arm out, and flap," he replied.

It wasn't _that _funny, but for some reason... probably breaking-point tension and lack of sleep... it tickled the hell out of Gordon. He cracked up, which set Virgil off. Too distracted now to mind his instruments, Virgil brought Thunderbird 2 in by feel alone, setting her down as gently as a leaf skimming the surface of a pool.

"B-beautiful, Virgil!" Brains enthused, when 2 finally rolled to a stop, her broad green nose pushing just within the open hangar doors. "You, ah... you've never d- done better." He had absolutely no clue why the pilot was laughing so hard, nor what he meant by,

"Got an extra aerodynamic boost at the end, there, Brains. New landing procedure." Then, more tiredly, "Putting this girl to bed and coming on in, Base. We'll see you inside."

"Ah..., FAB, V- Virgil. Good to have you h- home."

Meanwhile, breathing a deep sigh of relief, Scott increased his altitude to five thousand feet, switched to vertical flight mode, and prepared to bring his own Bird in. She pivoted smoothly in midair, his gimbal-mounted seat remaining steady while the great silver rocket re-oriented herself around him. The island disappeared from view, replaced by a sky as pure and cloudless a blue as he'd ever seen.

"Island Base from Thunderbird 1. Request permission to land, Brains."

"A- absolutely, Scott. Welcome, ah... welcome back!"

"Roger that, Buddy," The oldest of the Tracy brothers responded, smiling warmly.

Far below him, the pool drained explosively, then rumbled out of sight beneath the mansion. Unlike Virgil, he was coming in backward, guided by beacon, threading Thunderbird 1 into her hangar through a relatively small opening in the pool deck. Not _quite_ as difficult as landing Thunderbird 3, but close.

He forgot everything else but the heads-up display, keeping the blinking dot that represented 1 within its narrow targeting circle through a hundred instinctive, feather-light steering adjustments. The navigational guidance system murmured softly in his ear,

"Five thousand feet... four-thousand, five hundred feet... four thousand feet..." And so on, keeping Scott apprised of his altitude.

She touched down at last with a bass thud, the screaming roar of her engines magnified to ear-shredding levels inside the confines of the basalt and steel hangar bay. Overhead, the pool slid back into place, shutting out sunlight and concealing his Bird's lair. And all at once, about ten-thousand metric tonnes of pressure lifted off of Scott's heart. Home safe, all of them; mission accomplished. He shut her down, then sat for a moment in vibrating darkness, eyes closed, listening to the click and buzz of his instruments, the lowering grumble of the engines. Once or twice he'd actually fallen asleep that way, feeling Thunderbird 1 settle herself around him as the maintenance robots closed in and took over. Not this time, though. This time, he had a very, _very_ important rendezvous to keep.

Out in the hangar bay, Cindy waited impatiently, unable to stop a certain amount of hyperactive bouncing.

_'He's back, he's back, he's back...!' _She wasn't playing any games; she loved Scott, she knew it, wanted _him_ to know it, and couldn't wait to see him again.

Brains had let her in, having got over most of his shyness and suspicion by now. After all, you could hardly repel two separate invasions with someone, and not extend them at least a _little _trust. So, she was there on the catwalk, standing well out of the blast radius, when Thunderbird 1 came roaring down like a giant silver piston thumping into its chamber. She watched, open-mouthed, as the great rocket descended by crawler deeper into the bay, thenwas locked into place. A set of enormous mechanical access gantries unfolded from the hangar walls, connecting to the sleek craft with hoses and wires, and... Cindy squinted just a little, leaning out over the guard rail. _Robots? _They scuttled across the hangar bay, on and under the gantries, began swarming the Bird in waves. It was like a fast-forward nature video, the kind where ants reduce a dead animal to mere bones in seconds. Only, the robots appeared to be maintaining the craft, not consuming her.

As the engines' thunder died to a low grumble, then a steamy hiss, the Bird was polished, upgraded, repainted and refueled. Cindy looked on, amazed. Technology like that existed nowhere else on Earth, and there were many, many people out there who would kill, literally, to possess even a fraction of it. International Rescue, in fighting to save those who otherwise would have perished, had set themselves up as a target for those who'd use their technology to dominate, extort and control.

She felt a cold breath of premonition just then, what her mom would have called "someone walking over her grave". Could they defend a secret like that forever? Cindy hugged herself, willing the handsome, brave, all- important young man in that monster of technology to _hurry the hell up!_

It seemed to take forever, but at last Thunderbird 1's outer hatch slid open. A walkway extended itself from the boarding platform to the hatch, and Scott stepped forth, looking bone-weary, and slightly rumpled. Spotting her, he smiled, then made a swift, _'stay back' _motion with both hands. It being too noisy in the hangar for talk, he pointed around at the ceiling and walls, indicating the electric eyes and humming laser weaponry that guarded Thunderbird 1.

Right. She could wait a few more seconds, Cindy supposed, if it meant avoiding a down-to-the-bone, permanent tan. Then Scott crossed the last few feet, and Cindy literally leapt into his arms, laughing, crying and kissing everything she could reach. Quite beyond speech, Cindy was unable to make her declaration in words. Instead, she gave him three quick kisses in rapid succession, over and over, trusting that he'd get the message. He did.


	2. Chapter 2: Lunch and Plans

2

The family gathered in the solarium, where Grandmother Tracy and Kyrano waited to welcome them home. The old woman had a comment for each of the boys and Jeff besides, as well as TinTin, Gennine and Parker. Brains ducked his head in, nodded once or twice in a nervous, white-rabbit sort of way, then scooted off to the peace and safety of his lab, hustling Alan away for medical treatment.

Victoria reached first for Scott, who'd just come in with Cindy, fairly glowing.

"Scotty," she told him, "I'm proud of you, and Grant would be, too. You did a man's work today."

"Thanks, Grandma," he replied, leaning over to kiss her plump cheek. The compliment meant a lot, for their grandfather (raw-hide tough, yet full of unexpected mischief and humor) had just about raised the three older boys. If he'd done granddad proud, then he'd done well, indeed.

Now Virgil's turn came up. He'd been his grandfather's favorite; hunting and fishing with the old man, riding the acres with him, right to the last day.

"Teddy," (Victoria hated the name 'Virgil', and used always a variant of his middle name, instead) "Good work! Not sure, but I don't think even your granddad could 'a put her down any smoother, nor done a better job defending his folk."

Virgil colored, and gave her a long, wordless hug. Victoria wasn't through, though. Giving him a sharp little rap on the side of the head with her knuckles, she added mischievously,

"...And stay away from them Striped-Arrow minxes!" (Meaning Shari and Teena, the twins) "They'll wear you out, with all their wild-girl philandering!"

"Yes, Ma'am," Virgil choked, blushing hotter. His bountiful romantic situation had become something of a family joke, though no one but grandma would dare tease him to his face. Ignoring all the knowing grins, Virgil beat a hasty retreat, at once pleased and embarrassed.

Grandma Tracy had been looking around the big, sunny room. Spying a particular face, her sharp expression softened suddenly.

_"There _he is!" Putting her arms out, she said, "John Matthew, front and center, boy."

Obediently, the blond second son came forward, bent his tall body down, and gave his grandmother a warm hug. Through two long years of darkness, pain and silence, she'd been just about his only ray of light, and the bond forged then still existed. She'd mourned the chatty little boy who'd vanished right along with his dead mother, and did her best to comfort and protect the pale little ghost that remained. Not that John, too, didn't come in for his share of teasing. Putting her hands on his slender shoulders she held him away a bit, frowning at all the cuts and awkward stitches.

"What's this? Looks like you been drug ass-backward through a hundred miles of sagebrush, Boy!"

John actually laughed.

"Feels like it, too," he admitted ruefully, touching the cut on his neck.

"Well, take yourself on over to that egg-head, then, and get yourself patched up again. And hurry up! I've got lunch preparing, and food don't get no better for waiting, you hear?"

"Yes, Grandma. On my way."

Gordon had been hanging back. He felt intimidated, for some reason, as though this "grandma" were the Queen Mum, herself. Only Virgil's big hand on his shoulder prevented the boy from bolting like a colt. And now she was looking at him, a warm, expectant smile on her high-cheeked face.

Virgil's hand sent him stumbling forward, feeling like a wretched damn imposter.

Though she'd come to know Gordon later than her other grandsons, Victoria had developed a genuine fondness for the red-haired boy, who was sprightly and full of life as a meadowlark, and loved her cooking, besides. He didn't seem himself, though, coming forward as nervously as he had that first time.

Frowning, Victoria took the boy's cold hands in her own and peered up into his face. He looked lost, she noted, and deeply confused. Obviously, something was wrong, but Grandma Tracy had never yet backed down from a fight, be it rattlesnakes, grizzly bears, government agents... or mysterious family behavior.

"Pull yourself together, Red," she told him, too quietly for the others to hear. "It's gonna be okay, you're home now. You have any questions, you come to me, or Teddy. We'll set you straight. Now, give me a kiss, quick like, and say something funny."

Rather numbly, Gordon obeyed the first instruction, but... _funny?_ Put on the spot like that, he couldn't think of anything to say. So instead, he mimed exaggerated courtly etiquette, actually dropping to one knee and kissing her right hand.

"Oh, get up!" Victoria snapped crossly, clouting her second-youngest grandson on the head, "before I knock the fool clean outta you!"

Not wishing to find out whether the old lady could actually make good on her threat (right now, his money was on 'yes, she could, and then some'), Gordon scooted. Oddly enough, though, he felt better.

Jeff she gave a long, questioning glance, and then smiled at, saying mysteriously,

"That's better. Eating crow ain't never hurt nobody yet, Jeffery Connal."

"So I've learned, Mother," he responded. "Not too late, is it?"

His mother patted her son's hand, and it was as if the proud trappings of his ivy-league education, astronaut training, fame and wealth fell away in an instant.

"There's no such thing as too late, Boy," she told him. "Even sinners and damn G-men got purgatory to look to. Just you keep on doing right." Her gaze wandered pointedly over to Gennine, then. "...by _everybody_," She added firmly.

Then, after an affectionate kiss for TinTin (who'd clung to the far corners of the solarium, avoiding her anxious father) and shy Gennine, the Tracy matriarch accepted Parker's arm, leading them all to the breakfast room for a huge, ranch-style repast. Even Brains turned up eventually, with Alan and John; Grandma's cooking being something not to be missed.

Mountains of steaming food and hasty, back-of-the-envelope Thunderbird 5 designs combined to make for a long, pleasant family meal. It was well after six in the afternoon when they finally broke up for rest and showers.

"Get some sleep," Jeff told them all. "Priority one, from this moment on, is getting 5 back in space where she belongs. Meanwhile, John, have her monitor police scanners and news footage as best she can from Earth, and we'll handle the rescues as they come. Priority two, strengthen our defenses, find out where the "General" is, and bring him down. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir," his sons responded, as did Brains. Penelope favored him with a regal nod, then glanced around for Parker. (Eating his lunch in the kitchen with Kyrano- not that Victoria Tracy had refused them a place at the table, but being tradition-bound and proper, neither would consider sitting down with those they'd been engaged to serve; no matter how much more than a servant they'd truly become.)

"Parker," Penelope called softly, placing her carefully folded napkin beside her barely touched plate. She _was_ hungry, but a lady did not bolt her food like a pig at the trough... and Parker would contrive to bring up a tray later, when she could eat without being observed.

"Yes, Milady?" He popped up at once, almost seeming to materialize from thin air.

"I find myself a trifle fatigued, Parker. I believe I'll repair to my suite, now."

"Very good, Milady," the servant responded blandly, pulling back the chair, that she might rise with her usual fluid grace. Before turning away, Penelope gazed around at the gathered others.

"Mrs. Tracy, the meal was truly superb. I thank you, for your kind hospitality." Then, continuing graciously despite Victoria's grudging nod, "Jeff... everyone... I bid you a pleasant evening." Her lovely blue eyes lingered a bit on a certain face, and then she turned to go, led off to the stairs by Parker.

The rest broke up in twos and threes, Gennine remaining behind for awhile, to help Mrs. Tracy stow and secure the kitchen. Alan stayed, too, not having much else to do, since Virgil had whisked Gordon off somewhere. Besides, hanging around got him petted and loved on by grandma, who gave "the baby" several extra helpings of dessert, and fussed over his newly healed wound like he was the only kid ever to break a bone.

Meanwhile, Scott had a very important introduction to make, one he'd been dreading since noon.

"Father," he began hesitantly, leading Cindy forward, "I'd like to introduce..."

"I know who she is," Jeff cut him off, sourly. He'd ducked more than enough of Cindy Taylor's needle-sharp questions to have developed a lasting, negative impression. She gave him an apologetic little wave and smile, saying,

"Let me guess; _'no comment'_ ?"

Folding his arms upon his chest, Jeff Tracy frowned.

"Miss Taylor," he said, "I may have my reservations about this, but I trust my son's judgement. If Scott thinks enough of someone to bring them home... then I'm pleased to accept his choice. Just..."

"I know..." Cindy sighed. "_No_ cameras, _n_o microphones, _no _outside calls and _no_ taking notes. I've heard the spiel, Mr. Tracy."

"Call me Jeff," he said wearily, running a hand through his iron-grey hair. _'...Before it turns into Dad,' _the elder Tracy added silently, foreseeing certain future developments.

Weak with relief, Scott gave Cindy's shoulder a quick squeeze, then drew her aside, saying,

"Good night, Sir. See you first thing tomorrow."


	3. Chapter 3: Flashback

_An attempted cure goes wrong._

3

Virgil had steered Gordon to the infirmary, meaning to let Brains have a crack at that memory problem. Their sickbay was a small, sunny room adjacent to the lab, featuring a high-tech exam and treatment table, advanced medical equipment, five curtained hospital beds, and a balcony with half-open french doors. A little breeze came in along with the slanting, late afternoon sunlight, bringing birdsong, and the velvety scent of tropical blooms.

Gordon sat beside his older brother at the edge of a cluttered desk, trying to quell his own rising nervousness. Something about the room, or hospitals in general, maybe, made him deeply uneasy.

Then Brains stepped in from the stock room, still carrying on his over-the-shoulder conversation with Virgil. The skinny scientist had donned a white lab coat, and had an instrument tray in his gloved hands.

"We'll t- try a mild, ah... mild sedative f-first, Virgil, w-with hypnosis, after. Chances are he's only, ah... only b- buried the memories, not l- lost them completely. If that f- fails..."

Gordon never heard the rest. A spear of light flashed off the polished aluminum tray, the tiny glass vial. And all of a sudden, he was somewhere else; a harshly-lit prison with white, padded walls.

...Three men wrestled him to the floor while a fourth huddled against the wall, nursing a shattered jaw. Though he fought as hard and as desperately as he could, they succeeded in pinning him long enough for one of their number to force him into a strait jacket and fasten it wrenchingly tight. And then, because he continued to struggle, they kicked and stomped him, targeting abdomen, groin and lower back until he couldn't fight anymore.

"Regular little tough guy, isn't he?" Someone laughed coarsely, planting a sharp knee on his spine and patting his leg. Through a red mist of pain and terror, he saw another one enter the room; white lab coat, gleaming instrument tray.

"Now then, Gordon..." said the 'doctor', moving forward. There was no help, and no escape, no way at all to avoid what was coming. His brother was dead, and everything he remembered, a lie. A long hypodermic stung its way through the jacket's needle port, filling him with something that tore and seared clear down the length of his arm. "...Let's talk."

...Gordon vaulted to his feet so forcefully, he toppled the desk, sending books, files and computer equipment crashing to the floor. Fists tightly clenched, head lowered, the boy edged away, snarling,

_"Put that shit down, an' back the hell off, goddammit, or, so help me, I'll effin' break you in half!"_

Hurt and bewildered, Brains set down the tray and looked to Virgil.

"B- but I only...,"

The pilot shook his head, waving Hackenbacker away. Still protesting his innocence, the engineer retreated to the stock room. Then, hands out and clearly visible, Virgil backed his panicky brother into a wall.

"Gordon, it's okay," he began soothingly, coming slowly nearer. Kept a sharp eye on the boy's doubled fists, too. He'd seen trapped wolves that looked friendlier. Close enough at last for a swift grab, Virgil dodged a bone-crushing left hook, seized Gordon and trapped him in a powerful bear hug. Didn't do anything else but talk, though, trying like hell to calm the kid down.

Someone held him fast, in a _'be still'_ kind of way, not a _'beat you down and hurt you' _way, all the while saying something over and over, that Gordon was too shaken to really hear.

He wasn't going to cry. He never cried. At his mum's funeral, even, standing numbly by the grave with his coach and teammates; Royce on one side, McMahon on the other, Kurt, Erik and the rest gathered all around, protective as Dobermans. Not even then.

Gradually, the voice got through, pulling him back to the present, and the sunny, quiet room. His breathing slowed, the shaking calmed, and he began to listen, a little.

"You're okay, Kiddo, you're safe. I got you."

Virgil. Slowly, Gordon nodded, feeling his stomach give a sudden, experimental heave.

"You need to be sick?" His older brother asked calmly, seeming, as usual, to understand without being told. Gordon nodded again, exhausted, miserable and chilled. Virgil got him to a sink and ran the tap, holding him steady while he retched. Then, when no more would come, and he'd managed to wash up a bit, his brother fetched a bottle of water from the infirmary's refrigerator, opened the top and handed it over.

"I'm sorry," Gordon whispered guiltily, once the bitter taste had gone. "Didn' mean to make such a bother."

Virgil patted his back, said comfortingly,

"Not a problem, Kiddo. After what you've been through, flashbacks were bound to hit sooner or later. No more labs, promise. We'll try something else. Actually," his head dropped, "it's me that should be sorry."

Confused, Gordon looked up as Virgil continued,

"See... you're my responsibility; like John is Scott's, and I'm John's. Mom told me, when you were born, that now I was a big brother, and I was supposed to protect you... show you the ropes, kind of." Rubbing at his own knotted neck muscles, Virgil added quietly, "And that's twice I haven't done my job. Let you get lost, or hurt. Not exactly batting a thousand, here."

"Might've been worse..." Gordon ventured, after a bit.

"Yeah?"

"Y' might've got stuck with Alan."

Virgil started to laugh, pulling his younger brother close and knuckling the top of his head.

"No way," he chuckled. "The Tasmanian Devil is _your _problem, Mister."

Then, releasing Gordon,

"C 'mon, Kiddo. I'll show you up to your room. Grab some sack time, and a shower, and we'll move to plan B in the morning. Throw a coconut at your head, maybe, see if that doesn't knock something lose. Sound like a plan?"

"Sure... If I get t' throw one back."

"Fire away," his older brother scoffed. "You'll never hit me."

They left the room, then, still mock-arguing, while Hackenbacker remained behind. Sighing, the engineer summoned a team of maintenance robots, and set about clearing up, wondering just what he'd done wrong.


	4. Chapter 4: Together

4

Later that evening, Virgil sat down at his mother's grand piano, needing to relax and let go. In a sad and quiet sort of mood, he played Beethoven's plaintive "Moonlight Sonata". What he couldn't express any other way, Virgil poured out in music, feeling his wordless hurt ebb slowly away with the last notes.

TinTin sat on the bench beside him, losing herself in the music, and Virgil's warm, strong presence. Right now, she didn't dare fall asleep, or allow herself to be alone. With a terrible compulsion in her mind to tell no one what had occurred at the cavern, all she could do was stay awake and seek company.

Scott and Cindy leaned over the rail of a nearby balcony, meanwhile, listening quietly to the lovely, impromptu concert. The perfumed night was very still, the music piercing sweet. Gradually, the pianist switched over to something lighter, a Strauss waltz, Cindy hazarded, though she was no expert on classical music.

Smiling up at Scott, she said softly, swaying a little,

"Too bad nobody dances anymore, huh?"

"Um... actually... I do," he admitted, more than a little embarrassed. Then, by way of explanation, "Had to learn in a day and a half. Air Force ball came up, and I got hand-picked to escort the Base Commander's daughter."

Cindy raised an eyebrow.

"So, how 'd that work out for you, Hollywood?"

His crestfallen response took her completely by surprise.

"Not too good," he replied. "She, uh... didn't really like men."

Cindy had to bite her lip to keep from laughing out loud. Never, in all her days and travels, had she known anyone so astoundingly good-looking, who yet managed to be so utterly hapless at love. Hell of a card player, no doubt.

"Alrighty then, Fred Astaire," she teased gently, holding out her arms, "show me what you got."

They began to waltz out there on the balcony, and sure enough, he was quite good (not dragging her around, stepping on her feet, or anything). The beautiful music went on and on, and so did the dance. She rested her head against his broad shoulder, and he pulled her a notch closer. They'd reached the point, now, where the activity had become less a dance than a long, slow, moving embrace. Pressed so tight against him that she could hear his heartbeat, feel exactly how much he wanted her, she looked up, all at once terribly shy. He kissed her gently, then broke off, forehead touching hers for an instant before resuming the kiss. Then, taking her hand, he led her inside, and shut the doors.


	5. Chapter 5: Secret

5

On the other side of the bullet-scarred mansion, Lady Penelope heard nothing of the music but an occasional, resounding chord. She sat at her dressing table, brushing her long, golden hair and waiting. Finally, a solid hour after she'd sat down to touch up and make ready, the sleek young noblewoman grew impatient. Rising, she made for the balcony, meaning to have a look outside. Needless to say, _that_ was when he appeared, quietly entering through the unlocked sitting room door. As it was far too late for nonchalance, Penelope smiled, extended her hands to him, and came gracefully forward.

"I'm sorry," he said, taking her proffered hands in his own. "I would have come sooner, but there's so much work to do."

"Hush," she replied, placing a light hand to his lips. "You're more than forgiven." Then, a trifle mischievously, "How much do you miss me, up there all alone?"

"A lot," John admitted quietly. Her smile warmed, grew more inviting.

"Show me," she told him.

Pulling her into his arms, he kissed her with a rough, explosive passion that quite drove the breath from her body. Then, pushing the silk dressing gown off her shoulders, he brought his mouth to her neck, to the soft hollow at the base of her pale, arched throat. Clutching at the back of his head, she gave herself over entirely, only just British enough to whisper,

"Do be a dear... and lock... the door. No sense disturbing... the _entire_ household."

It was a long time before John left her, drowsy-warm and deeply satisfied, to return to his own room.

"Tomorrow?" she whispered, lifting a hand to him as he rose and dressed himself.

"If I can." And he kissed her again, every bit as intense and ferocious as before.


	6. Chapter 6: Night

6

Finding himself alone in an unfamiliar place, Gordon hadn't been able to sleep. Closing his eyes brought a host of unsettling, disjointed images. Not as vivid as before, but still sickening-strong. Then, too, someone was playing a piano, far off in the night. Something terribly sad; just what he needed.

Thinking to himself,

_'Place is the ruddy Haunted Mansion!'_

...Gordon got up and went to the room's telecom, determined to make a phone call. He had to weave his way through a lot of athletic gear, fancy dive equipment and some kind of step ladder pressed into service as a combination aquarium stand and trophy shelf. Weird. He didn't enjoy drifting past the indecipherable bits of somebody's life, especially when he knew that the unknown life was supposed to be _his._

The telecom sat atop a big wooden desk, which seemed to serve more often as a handy spot to pile gear than a work station, judging by all the watermarks and scratches. Regular slob, evidently. Not that he was all that surprised. The dorm room he shared with Royce and Damien in Madrid was a touch untidy, the flat in Drogheda, still more so. At least here, someone appeared to be picking up.

Reaching for the telecom's keypad, Gordon wrung his brain for awhile, then typed in the number... (0114) 272 6442 ... and leaned close to the phone, hands locked on the desk edge, to wait. The screen flashed, cleared, and a young girl's petulant face appeared, haloed in late-summer light. Cinnamon-skinned she was, with big brown eyes and pert features surrounded by a riot of dark corkscrew curls. Rosemary Fellows, Royce's little sister. Eyes widening happily, she shrieked,

_"Gordon!_ Are you at th' airport, then? Shall we come f'r you?"

"Hey, Rosie. No... not just yet, Angel, but I'm workin' on it."

Her face fell, as sudden bright hopes for toys, candy, and lots of tossing into the air faded miserably away.

"Royce about?" Gordon prodded, making a mental note to send a gift by post, if he couldn't get out that way, soon.

The little girl rolled her eyes expressively.

_"Aye! _Lyin' out in front of the telly like a great, stupid sot!" And then, leaning dramatically closer,

" 'Ee's _snorin'!"_

Gordon was about to suggest that she run and get him, when a big hand appeared from outside the telecom's view, seized Rosemary by the back of her shirt, and tossed her away.

"Off with you, Rose!" Her brother snapped, as the girl threw a cushion. Batting it away, Royce turned back to the screen. His wide grin showed off a mouthful of gold teeth as the older boy said,

"Gordon, lad! On y'r way, are you?" He tapped a loosely clenched fist to the screen, which gesture Gordon returned from his end. Before they could continue the conversation, Rosemary interjected herself again, poking her head over her brother's muscular shoulder to say,

"You _must _come, Gordon. I've been dreadfully good!" And then, at her brother's slack-jawed astonishment, "Well, at any rate, I _did _try, and you would've busted Alfie Perkins bang in th' mouth, too, if ee'd said th' same t' you!" Lowering her voice, the girl added, "I'll _not _tell you what 'ee said t' me, in front of Royce... Go straight t' mum, 'ee will!" This time, Royce threw her further.

"Sorry about that, mate. She's a bit of a 'andful, sometimes. Dad's still out on the rig, an' I'm brat-sittin' while mum does 'er errands. Go on."

"Nuthin', really..., jus' wanted to say hello."

Royce shook his bald head, laughing a little.

"Never drink alone, mate. S' bad f'r you. At _least_ put on the telly." Then, growing more serious, "Practice starts again, soon. Best show up on time, or McMahon 'll fry you."

"Right. I'll be there." _Somehow._

Then the comm cut off, going suddenly dark and silent. Gordon cursed, started to punch the number back in again, was stopped by a brief, implacable message which flashed on the darkened screen.

'Access Denied.'

He collapsed into a chair, head in his hands. Right, then. No outside phone calls. So... what else was there to do in this wretched place besides listen to ghostly music, or stare at the ceiling? Rising, Gordon made his way to the door, half worried that it would be locked against him. The handle turned, though, letting him out into a long, dimly lit hallway. There was always the kitchen, which he was pretty sure he could find again, and maybe someone else was still up, looking for company. Whatever, sleep was entirely out of the question, that night.


	7. Chapter 7: Memories

7

Back in his study, Jeff Tracy stared at the computer message, and shook his grey head. England. The red-haired little pain in the neck had called _England_. What was next? Spain? Drumming his fingers on the varnished desk top, Jeff briefly considered calling the boy over, then squashed the impulse. He needed to think things through, first. Combining Alan's volatility with John's mile-wide stubborn streak, Gordon was often as difficult to control as the west wind. More worrisome still, the boy had a host of outside entanglements, andseemed intractably set against severing them. Jeff sighed. He had no one to blame, but himself, he supposed.

A line... _'No good deed goes unpunished'... _came to him, then. Didn't recall who'd said it, or why. Just fit his mood.

Pushing back his leather chair, Jeff got to his feet and went over to the bar. There, in a locked safe, he kept a numbered bottle of two-hundred year old Irish whisky. Coleraine single malt. His father had opened it, once, to toast the birth of a son. _He'd_ done it five times. A family heirloom, it was, and not to be wasted. Still, on a night like this, with the sound of Virgil's playing filling the house with ghosts and shadows, it mightn't hurt to break with tradition. Just this once...

Fetching a crystal tumbler, Jeff breached the bottle and poured out three fingers of dark golden whiskey. He didn't bolt it. Liquor as old and fine as this was not to be gulped, but savored. At once smooth and fiery, with a dense, mellow flavor refined by great age, the liquor warmed him from top to toe, fumes rising into his head from each slowly swallowed mouthful.

_'Damn, that's good,' _he thought wistfully, _'Need to get married, again, and have a few more sons.'_

Turning, Jeff went to the balcony, listened to the music, and stared at the night, very, very slowly finishing his drink. His thoughts went this way and that, settling time and again on Gordon, and the special problem the boy had presented, twice now.

His business rivals called Jeff Tracy a bastard and a sonuvabitch, and sometimes they were right...

He'd been at his desk, eight months after the accident, driving himself harder than he'd ever worked in his life. The idea, the organization that would have saved Lucinda, had it existed then, was coming together. A passion, a burning excitement he hadn't felt in months, had finally thawed the ice in his numbed soul, giving Jeff Tracy a reason not to shoot himself. So much to do, and all of it, somehow, in secret.

Sorting through the accounting paperwork on his cluttered desk, Jeff came across a recent medical bill, from the hospital in Geneva. Physical therapy... Food... pharmaceuticals... it added up to quite a bit, marked in one corner "paid in full".

Jeff stared at the bill, dated 22 Oct 2050. He hadn't forgotten about the baby, exactly, nor the others, either, just buried himself so deeply in work that everything but land deals, aircraft design and International Rescue had faded out of his consciousness. But now...

His heart jerked a bit, seemed to shake off a coat of grey ash. The baby was still alive? Recovering, even? He'd said nothing of all this to his parents, or to the boys. Why stab them again with false hope, when the doctors had pronounced Gordon to be mortally wounded? The child had been lost, he told his grieving family, swept away by the avalanche, his tiny body never recovered. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, the merciful thing...

But now, Jeff's face stretched just a bit, in a small, rusty smile. They would be surprised, all of them, and overwhelmed with joy, when he came back with the baby. Toddler now, he supposed. Making up his mind all at once, Jeff hit the desk comm to his secretary, never wondering why Kathleen had failed to call him from the hospital.

"Jean," he called out, excitement brimming in his warm, deep voice.

"Yes, Mr. Tracy?" The young woman responded, poised and prim as always.

"Have my jet prepared for a trans-Atlantic flight, ASAP. Cancel all of my appointments for the rest of the week. Robert can handle anything really vital that comes up. Tell my staff to set up the usual travel kit for me, and..."

"Yes, Sir?"

"Get a baby bag prepared."

There was a long, pregnant pause at the other end. Jean was single, and childless, so possibly Jeff's assumption that she knew what young children needed was a little off.

"A... baby bag, Sir? As in, to carry a baby, or...?"

"Supplies, Jean! Supplies: bottles, diapers, fuzzy animals, tranquilizers, whatever it is they need. Get one together."

"Fuzzy animals and tranquilizers... I see." If he hadn't known better, Jeff would have thought she was laughing at him. "Yes, Mr. Tracy, I'll get on it right away."

The afternoon raced by, as he shut down what he was doing, leaving himself an urgent note to contact that young post-doc student at Princeton, the twitchy little engineer everyone said was crazy. He had some interesting ideas, and Jeff wanted to hear them, but now all that mattered was his live, healed baby son, and a wonderful family surprise.

The flight went smoothly. Jeff was a skilled pilot, taught to fly by the best, and a former astronaut, at that. Odd, he thought, giving the instrument panel a loving pat, how something so thrilling, so vital, could come to seem an ordinary, work-a-day task; grey and indifferent as the rest of his life had become. Well, that was all changed, now. He was starting over.

Touching down at GVA with hardly a bump, Jeff taxied the jet over to the company hangar, a modest affair with but a single, bored mechanic. He raced through the shut-down procedures in record time, handing the plane over to the mechanic with instructions to top her off and check out the engine (He hoped, anyway... Something about the man's bemused expression suggested that Jeff's French wasn't all it should be).

Scooping up his black, monogrammed carry-on, and the dinosaur print bag Jean had put together, Jeff Tracy all but sprinted out the hangar doors. He hadn't a company car in Geneva, so he had to go to the rental counter, which nearly shattered his pleasant mood. The last time he'd been here... eight months previously... Lucinda and the boys had been along, all excited about their impending ski trip. He recalled his own preoccupation, his irritated retreat into the Wall Street Journal, and how Lucinda had worked so hard to make him smile.

_'Didn't really want the kids along,'_ He thought to himself, guiltily. And then, _'I'm sorry, Lucy... I was wrong. But I'm fetching our son back, and I'm going to make it all up, if it's not too late. I promise you.'_

He rented the car, a tiny, yellow Peugeot, and drove like mad for the hospital, weaving at breakneck speed through winding roads that seemed to have been designed with horse carts in mind. It was a beautiful fall day, sunny and cool, with the snow-capped mountains jagged and tall in the middle distance. He avoided looking at them, recalling the avalanche, and what had happened afterward.

Luck was with him; he found a space in the hospital's parking garage, not far from the entrance. Then, stopping just long enough to pick up a blue teddy bear from the hospital gift shop, Jeff Tracy went to get his young son.

A few questions at the information center (repeated many times, with frequent reference to his electronic phrase book) guided him up to the pediatric convalescent ward. The white-blonde nurse there was very friendly, and spoke much better English.

"Oui!" She responded, smiling cheerfully. "The baby... he is yes, 'ere. Very ... eh... sweet, Monsieur. Sweet boy. And Madame Tracy, she is so very much loving to him. You must be 'appy ... eh... une famille tres heureux, Monsieur. Very 'appy."

Puzzled, actually... though not worried. After all, Kathleen was his cousin Joe Tracy's widow. A fire fighter in Drogheda, he'd been killed in the line of duty little more than a year before. Trapped by a fallen roof, and burned beyond assistance, he'd died at the scene of the fire before his wife could reach his side. Kathy had every right to call herself "Mrs. Tracy".

Giving the nurse a quick nod, he followed her directions to the right room; 344. The door was open.

He heard the sounds well before he saw anything. Cheerful, childlike squeals and giggles, together with the wobbling patter of a young toddler re-learning to walk. A gentle voice, soft and encouraging, floated from the room. Kathleen.

Jeff paused in the threshold, as yet unseen, and looked within. The baby had grown, he noted proudly, and healed, as well. The scars where multiple compound fractures had rent his skin had faded with time to thin, whitish lines. Smiling, Jeff looked on.

Kathleen knelt upon the tiled floor in a patch of sunlight, arms out, calling to the tiny boy, who made his unsteady way toward her, nearly falling half a dozen times, laughing the entire way. He reached her at last, throwing himself forward into her welcoming arms.

"Mommy!" He chortled, as Kathleen scooped him up and nuzzled him, eyes closed.

"No, Love..." she whispered, her long red hair swinging down around them like a curtain. "..._Mummy_. Say 'mummy'."

Face screwed up in concentration, the child tried again.

"Mmm-uuu-mmy!" Was rewarded with a soft blizzard of kisses.

"There's my brave little man, just like daddy! And good, and clever, and funny, and..."

Jeff must have moved, or made some slight, bewildered sound, for Kathy turned her head suddenly, and saw him. Her face changed instantly, going dead white. Green eyes huge with terror, she clutched the child close and got to her feet, began backing slowly away.

Shaking her head, she mouthed, too stricken to speak aloud,

_'No... please, no...God, oh God, please...!'_

Jeff stood there in shock, still holding the bear, watching as Kathleen began to cry, her thin shoulders trembling in silent agony. The baby didn't understand, of course. All he wanted to do was play.

_"Mummy! _Mummy, walk!" He tugged petulantly at her sleeve, then looked over at Jeff. Nothing. Not a hint of recognition, or interest. His father might as well have been a piece of furniture, or a hospital orderly, for all the boy knew. With some detached portion of his mind, Jeff noted that the boy's eyes were changing color. They'd be green soon, or hazel. Eight months was a very long time in the life of a baby. And in the mind and heart of a lonely, devastated young woman, an eternity.

There were two Jeff Tracys, then; the one that strode in and tore back his son, letting an innocent young girl die of a twice-shattered heart, and the one that set down the 'baby bag', walked out the door and called his lawyer. Horribly torn, he saw himself doing both. But of course, both weren't possible, any more than happiness seemed to be.

Jeff Tracy turned and left the room, heavy hearted... and empty handed. The inanely smiling teddy bear ended up outside, in a waste bin. Unable to do what he should have, take back the child Kathleen had fallen so desperately in love with, Jeff returned to the States, got his lawyer, and filled out some custody papers. He never saw or spoke to Kathy again, keeping tabs on his growing son through a local barrister, and sending a generous, bi-weekly draft which she refused to spend. All of the money, he found out later, ended up in Gordon's college fund. She made do on one small income and, later, Gordon's meager athletic stipend, loving the boy, and raising him as her own, to the end of her too-short days.

Jeff Tracy's business rivals called him a bastard, and a sonuvabitch, but sometimes... that time... they were wrong.

The glass was empty. Sighing, Jeff debated filling it again, then set it aside. Like the past, alcohol was best taken in small doses.


	8. Chapter 8: Reaction

8

John had gotten perhaps three hours sleep, but he felt better than he had since restoring contact with Five. Damn good, in fact.

It wasn't just grandma's food, or being out of the cave, or having his cuts properly healed. Not even being able to walk more than twenty paces in a straight line, though _that _entertainment never grew stale. The reasons were complex, and took some sorting out. Just being on Earth for awhile, maybe, with all its odd sensations. The air, for one, contained genuine scents and assorted noises, while the ground and atmosphere were warmed by the sun instead of a heater. But best of all, there were women... or woman, rather: Penny, whom he'd liked well enough to program Five's 'personality' after. Five, though, was far less impressed with life in the dust, and swiftly let him know it.

He'd no sooner cut off the shower and stepped out for a towel, than she started instant messaging. Ever resourceful, the temporarily homeless quantum computer spoke using his wrist comm, television screen, phone, and every other available appliance to transmit rapid messages, shifting her medium to match his line of sight. (And avoid everyone else's, when in public.)

_"John Tracy status check. Initiating chip scan. Scanning John Tracy. Results available. Previous 6 hours' activity resulted in elevated blood pressure, heart rate, and arrhythmic breathing. Activity deemed hazardous if continued."_

John dried off, smiling slightly, then stepped to the sink, lathered up and began to shave, draping the towel loosely about his hips.

"Not hazardous," he corrected her, when it was safe to speak without cutting himself. Rinsing the razor, he put it back in place and cleaned up the counter, adding, "Just... aerobic, I'd say."

She came back instantly, from the bedroom telecom:

_"Listed aerobic activities previously tested and proven safe include the following: running, stationary bike riding, wall climbing, weight lifting, Tae Kwon Do, swimming, walking_..." She might have gone on for hours if John hadn't interrupted her.

Rummaging through the bureau for a pair of shorts, he said,

"Well, it's not... _exercise_, really. More of..." Inspiration struck, as he was zipping up. "More of an upload. A transfer."

There was a brief pause, as she processed this statement. John imagined the stock exchange mainframe inexplicably beginning to smoulder. Then, from the TV screen.

_"What is the nature of data being transferred, John Tracy?"_

Another tough question. Hadn't he ever programmed her to watch the Discovery Channel? Of course, recording an image was one thing, comprehending it, quite another, if one had no applicable frame of reference. He'd have suggested a web-search, but the last thing he needed was to have his computer stuck at a porn site.

Back at the closet John pulled one of his many black tee shirts off a hangar, and tried another tack.

"Not data, material. You know how Thunderbird 3 used to come up, slip into the access port, and transfer supplies? Like that, a little."

He got the shirt on, then had to look around for his leather deck shoes. Damn, but Kyrano _never _left anything where he'd placed it. Nobody did. That was the trouble with this room, the mansion, and Earth in general; too many damn places to hide things. Too much confusion. At least out in space, he knew where everything _was._

John was about to look under the bed, when Five's next message flashed across his wrist comm.

_"Missing items of apparel located beneath folded-clothing storage unit, John Tracy."_

Folded...? Oh. The bureau. He found them. Now, though, she had another caveat.

_"Need for materials transfer from John Tracy to most frequent subject deemed questionable. Unauthorized user. Recommend denial of access."_

The next bit surprised him. Evidently, somewhere in one of the college mainframes, she'd discovered emoticons. She flashed a scowling face at him, from the watch, once again.

He really needed to get going, join Brains in the lab, but didn't want to continue this conversation around the others. _Especially,_ not grandma or, worse yet, Gordon.

"No, it's alright," he responded, a little impatiently. "Believe me, she's authorized. Access granted on all security levels."

If a quantum computer could be said to take on a sarcastic tone, Five certainly managed it now, transmitting her reply in heavy Italics.

_"Recommend upgraded firewall, and installation of new anti-viral software, John Tracy. User is known to frequent other sites. Infected_ _attachments highly probable."_

John shook his head disbelievingly. Why the hell would she choose to pick on Penny? After all... Lady Penelope had been his inspiration when programming the computer that was going to be his sole companion for long stretches of time.

Definitely, he needed to get Five, and himself, back in orbit. Rising from his seat on the bed, John started for the door, saying,

"Five, trust me. There's no danger involved in the 'transfer', just a mutual good time. I know what I'm doing."

She came back with a confusing statement that he didn't pay much attention to at the time, being halfway out of the room.

_"John Tracy deemed authorized user. Access granted."_

"I certainly hope so," he replied, running a slim hand through his still-damp, silver-blond hair. "Considering how much work we have to do. Now, scan the house and let me know where everyone is. I have a few things to pick up. _Quietly."_


	9. Chapter 9: Recovery

9

The morning was a busy one. There was, indeed, a great deal to do, and John was at the center of most of it, together with Brains. The others filled in with tasks as needed. Jeff Tracy coordinating the reestablishment of International Rescue's listening posts, while buying back as much stock as John admitted owning (or would sell).

Scott stayed on the telecom with a WASP official for three solid hours, explaining, as delicately as possible, how "terrorists" had come to Tracy Island, and what they'd done when they got there. At the same time, (using another line and a powerful encrypter) he warned them again to be _extremely_ cautious transporting the Hood, and sent all the information John had scraped together so far on Clayton Reynolds, and one "Tania Berghofer".

Virgil oversaw upgrade and maintenance of the island's defenses. With at least two of their most powerful enemies knowing exactly where it was located, International Rescue's base was going to need much tighter security. He looked in on Thunderbird 2 as often as possible, watching in tense, ten-minute intervals as the last vestiges of the crash were smoothed away. The time came when she stood there at last, bathed in floodlights, poised above a long row of vehicle pods, on four tall, stilt-like legs.

Walking across a long gantry, Virgil placed a hand on 2's blunt nose. Then, with a pride too deep for words, he buffed away at some invisibly tiny smear with his shirt sleeve. Reaching into a pocket, Virgil fetched out his cigarettes, lit one up, then leaned back against 2's polished hull, staring out the hangar doors and smoking. She was ready, he decided; they both were.

Even the kids were pressed into service, sent about the island on hover sleds to reload some two hundred widely scattered defense masts with engine-smothering foam. A mind numbingly tedious job, which Alan and Gordon soon abandoned in favor of a wild, aerial foam-fight with TinTin. She won handily, leaving the boys covered in shame and red rubber goo. Better yet, after all their boasting, they owed her now; said tasks to be assigned later, after she let them wonder for a bit. All in all, a pleasant, almost normal, morning.

The family gathered for lunch around 2 PM, then drifted over to the pools, genuinely exhausted. (No one but Alan seemed to have gotten much sleep.)

Gordon went off by himself to an outdoor table. For once, not swimming. He had a few sheets of paper and a pencil with him, and seemed very intent on his task, whatever it was. Curious (and desperately needing a _'Let's get back at TinTin' _strategy), Alan started over, a couple of root beers in hand. Gordon no sooner caught sight of him, though, than he crumpled up what he'd been working on, hiding the wadded paper beneath one hand.

Alan stopped dead in his tracks; hurt, and unable to hide it. Then his brother relented, smoothing the paper out with both hands. Head lowered, Gordon muttered quietly,

"Just... couldn' remember them all. In order, I mean... so I thought I'd write them up. For practice."

Peering over his brother's shoulder, Alan smiled, then thumped down on the bench at Gordon's side. Setting down their drinks, the younger boy pulled a fresh sheet of paper out of the stack.

"No problem! Hey, I'm good at these. Watch," Taking up the pencil, Alan drew a series of grouped dots, saying. "What you do is... you draw, like, six groups of four, to make a pattern. See, it's four, check out the dots, but there's six of the groups. Six times four, get it? And, if you count 'em up real quick, you can see there's twenty-four, just like the table says. Six times four... is twenty-four."

Gordon nodded, his embarrassment fading as he caught on to the trick.

"Right, I got it. That's clever."

Alan shrugged modestly.

"They tell me I'm a visual learner," he said, with a smile. Then, "Okay, your turn. Do 'six times five'. Draw it out like I showed you, no hurry."

Gordon bent to the task, Alan leaning in like a conspirator, offering hints, suggestions and encouragement. The lessons continued even when TinTin slipped between them on the bench, one arm around each of the brothers' waists. As they'd long since learned, there was safety in numbers.

Sitting at another umbrella table, away across the pool, Scott gazed at the kids and shook his head resignedly. Nudging Cindy, who was seated on his lap, he pointed the trio out to her.

"They're plotting again. Watch your back."

She wriggled luxuriantly.

"That's your job, Mister. I'm watching _you_."

Virgil, stretched out in a nearby chaise lounge, finished the last of his Heineken, saying pensively,

"Kinda glad they're hooked up again, myself. It's a good sign."

"Sure," Scott snorted, "If you like laughing through your tears. One more practical joke at my expense, and..."

"...And you'll give them their absolutely final, _'this time, goddammit, I mean_ _it'_, last chance?" John, like the others dressed in little more than swim wear, had joined the lazy, sun-warmed group, beer in hand. He took a seat near Virgil and the ice chest.

Cindy sat up, frowning.

"You stole my laptop," she snapped, jabbing an aggressive forefinger at his chest.

John shrugged. "I left a message."

_"A damn post-it note!" _Cindy accused, clearly exasperated. "I go back to my room after breakfast, thinking I'll check my e-mail, and, hey, no laptop! I had to look all over the desk, and under it, before I found your ransom note on the floor: _'Got the laptop. JMT' _Took me nearly an hour to figure out what the hell 'JMT' meant! Join Me Tonight?"

"John Matthew Tracy... and you'll get it back," he replied, unfazedly finishing his beer, then reaching another one out of the cooler.

"In one piece? My contacts are on that thing, my _sources! _There's been a huge poisoning scare in congress, and I've got an intern leaking the details to me, _that I can't contact now,_ thanks to you!"

Carefully resting the bottom edge of the metal cap against one side of the table, John brought his fist down hard upon the bottle's top, opening his new beer in one swift, sudden move. The cap flipped end-over-end through the air, was neatly fielded by Virgil, who set it down upon his own growing cap pile. He and Scott were watching the by-play between Cindy and John like bemused spectators at a hand-grenade tennis match.

"Your sources are safe," John told her, glancing at his wrist comm. "I need the extra processing power, not disk space." Then, after downing half the bottle. "Tell you what; I'll upgrade it for you."

She glared at him, then pointed at the beer bottle.

"Not like that, you won't! God knows what I'd get back."

He was distracted again, briefly, by his watch, then returned to their argument, stretched out and sparkling gold in the sun.

"I'm more creative after downing a few, actually." Then he shrugged again, got up, pulled another bottle out of the ice chest, and turned to go, throwing over his shoulder, "You'll like what you get back."

"Yeah, right!" Cindy growled at his retreating form. Then, wriggling closer in against Scott, "That is one scary guy."

Scott wrapped an arm around her, saying, just a touch worriedly,

"Glad to hear you say that. And I'm really glad _I_ saw you first." Those two, in Scott's opinion, enjoyed sparring _way_ too much. Cindy dug an elbow into his rock solid abdomen. Or tried to.

"I'm with _you_, fella," she told him, "for the duration, or until you throw me out."


	10. Chapter 10: Renewal

10

That evening, Jeff Tracy called his sons to the office. They filtered in haphazardly, Scott first (punctual as ever), followed a few minutes later by Virgil, who came in wiping motor oil off his hands with a rag (he'd been down at the marina, attending to the yacht and speed boat). Next John showed up, Cindy's laptop tucked beneath one arm. There was another sticky note attached to its case.

Gordon and Alan came in together, slightly late, looking flushed and sneaky. Scott gave them a long, level stare, silently promising a pair of matching broken necks if they'd unleashed more devilment in his direction. He supposed he'd find out, probably much sooner than he wanted.

When all were present, Jeff surprised his five sons by bidding them make themselves comfortable, and keying shut the office doors. Mystified, they looked at one another for cues, then did a laughably poor job of trying to appear relaxed; sitting at the edge of their seats, or standing, birch-stick straight, against the paneled walls.

"Boys," Jeff began, returning to his desk. "I need to speak to you. _With _you." He started to take a seat behind that great island of polished tropical wood, then changed his mind, came out front, and leaned against the desk's edge, instead.

"I... want to..."

He stopped, shook his head with a rueful little laugh, and tried again. "Boys, when I first brought you to the island, after Brains designed and built the Thunderbirds, and my dream was just a few pilots short of being realized..., it never occurred to me to ask whether you _wanted_ to leave everything and bring all this to life. Let's be honest," he raked a hand through his grey hair, brown eyes drifting from one confused face to another. "I didn't really care. You were my sons; employees, with a few special privileges. I threw you into this, risked your lives, and never asked what you thought, or wanted. Well... recent events have made me take a good, hard look at myself, and what I've seen... I haven't much liked."

Clearly nervous, their father rubbed his hands together. Then, after a deep breath, he pushed on. "So, now I'm asking, if it isn't too late..., do you want to keep flying for me, or would you like to go back to what you were doing before? I promise, you won't be cut off, whatever choice you make. Scott, if you want to return to the Air Force, I have more than enough friends among the Joint Chiefs of Staff to get you reinstated, with full rank and back pay. Virgil, the land in Wyoming, Kansas and Colorado is yours. Papers are already drawn up. Your grandfather would have wanted it that way, and I know that's where your heart is... for a couple of reasons." For a moment there, a brief mischievous sparkle had appeared in Jeff's eyes. Then he grew serious again, and turned his attention to John,cold and remote as a marble Apollo.

"John... I think, in some ways, you and I are the most alike, but the least compatible. Whatever you decide to do there, if you want it, a new space station will be built. You can go back to college and finish that PhD, if you like, or join me in the corporation. You'd make a hell of a Research and Development officer. Up to you, son."

Now his attention shifted to Alan and Gordon, seated together by the fireplace. He smiled a little.

"You two still have school to finish, which no doubt thrills you to no end." Their soggy-coffee-ground enthusiasm left little doubt where the youngest Tracys stood on the education issue. Jeff went on, saying, "But afterward, the possibilities are what you choose to make of them. Alan, I know what cars mean to you, and I'll buy whatever it is you want to drive... _after _you turn eighteen, and have a two-year safe driving record." The baby-faced blond groaned, slouching crossly back in his seat. This wasn't what he'd visualized when 'Santa-Dad' started handing out the presents.

"Gordon...," Jeff, aware that this was perhaps his riskiest offer, gazed very directly into his second-youngest son's hazel eyes. "You're free to go. You can return to Europe, to the swim team, but I'll have you guarded, night and day, by as many operatives as I can post in one spot at one time. Given what's happened this month...," (Had it been only three and a half weeks? To Jeff, it had seemed like a heart-clutching eternity of fighting and desperation.) "...What's happened to _you_, I've got to keep you under surveillance. The most I can promise is that you won't see them often, but they'll be there, as will I, if you need me. Other than that, you can go on, with my blessings, to win many more medals. I'll be cheering for you... For _all _of you"

There. He'd said it, freeing his sons to follow their own desires, whatever the personal cost. Now, his request.

"I do hope, however, that at least a few of you might choose to stay. International Rescue will go on, one way or another, but I must admit... What we've built together won't be the same without you; your courage, your heart and your strength. The Birds don't fly without the right men at the stick. And... um, I've already found them." He gave a short, gusty sigh, and looked around at the boys. Waiting.

They glanced at one another, shifting stance uncomfortably. Scott spoke first, his blue-violet eyes deadly serious.

"Well... I can't speak for the rest, Sir, but I've got nothing more important to do. The Air Force was a career. This is a mission, and I'm proud to be a part of it. Thunderbird 1 still has a pilot."

Virgil nodded soberly, saying,

"I'll need the odd leave time to keep the ranch and farms in shape... and, uh, attend to a few other things... but I can't imagine ever turning my back on any of you, or Thunderbird 2, either. So tear up the want ad."

John, his face completely impassive, said simply,

"I'm in."

Alan hesitated, looking at Gordon, then ventured,

"You're kidding, right? Saving people is, like, totally cool. What else am I gonna do at fourteen? Drive a race car? When Thunderbird 3 is still up for grabs? Not _even! _I mean, who else is gonna let a couple of kids drive big, powerful machines and carry pistols? Right, Gordon?_"_

The auburn-haired boy glanced at Alan, whose expression was almost pleading. He thought of TinTin, and the mysterious assault she didn't seem able to discuss. Well..., _someone _had to keep those two out of trouble...

"I'll need time to go to trainin'..., swim meets, an' the like." He told his father. "No panic about the schoolin', though. That you can keep, an' welcome to it."

Jeff Tracy laughed aloud, more pleased than words could express.

"I guess Thunderbirds are go, then. Welcome aboard."

They shook hands on it, Jeff fetching his special bottle out of the locked safe to toast the rebirth of International Rescue. Glasses were raised, the molten lightning tossed back (not without some coughing and choking on Alan's part), and pledges made.

Jeff was just about to pour another round, when a sudden, beeping alarm went off. An alert. 5 had detected a serious cry for help, somewhere in the Middle East. As their father called up the details, giving his sons their marching orders, Gordon turned to Alan.

"Is it always like this, around here?" He asked, very quietly.

Alan opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again. Thinking for a second, he grinned and said,

"Yeah... pretty much. You get used to it."

Then, it was time to go.


End file.
